Three Blocks South
by Beta Gyre
Summary: Post-film. The respite didn't last long. Soon Sydney would have to adjust to a new way of life, massive responsibility, a grueling campaign trail, and a major shock, all the while keeping the personal aspects of her life as private as possible.


**Author's Note:** This follows the 1995 film _The American President._ The names of two OCs have been slightly modified to comply with this website's rule about living people (but it should be obvious who they are meant to be). The movie was set not quite 20 years ago and so is this story. I've tried to recall what it was like in the mid-90s when it wasn't regarded as a mortal sin to shake hands with someone of the other party, but there's still a fair amount of dark foreboding about that.

Character age is important in this fic, and I was unable to find anything about how old they were meant to be (if there _were_ specific ages intended). I'm thinking his character was meant to be a few years younger than the actual actor's age at the time. I've proposed an age for her (it's more relevant for her) based on the "old photo" plot thread and the fact that a protest activist phase usually occurs in one's 20s. The age I propose is a couple of years _older _than the actress's age at the time because... well, read on.

As to the title: K Street is three blocks north of Pennsylvania Avenue at closest approach.

Thanks to ff'er Bain Sidhe for looking over an earlier draft of this and making suggestions for improvement.

Rated for sexytimes at the end and some strong language.

* * *

**Three Blocks South**

* * *

**Genius Moves**

The only thing Sydney regretted was that it wouldn't be held during the cherry blossom season. April was just too soon to plan an event of this scope. Far too soon. The end of June was pushing it, really, but she agreed that it needed to be done in the summer before too much time had passed.

"I've got a reprieve for now," Andy explained, "but it shouldn't be put off too long, or they'll start to ask why it hasn't been held yet, and the goodwill will dry up. And it needs to be held before the party conventions. It'll be very difficult to hold it during the heat of the campaign, and anyway, you _must _have a prime speaking slot at the convention. Besides, it'll look really good in an election year and will certainly buoy poll numbers."

A woman from virtually any other profession would be highly offended by such frank acknowledgment of this calculation, but she was in politics too and it had occurred to her as well. In any case, what was there to complain about? Maybe if the political calculus had, for some reason, been that it was better to _delay _the wedding, there might have been reason to be upset. But this was a win-win, so she wasn't about to manufacture angst over it.

Inviting Rumson to the ceremony was a stroke of political genius—which was to say, it was her idea. Andy was deeply impressed with how smart a move it was. She was _good _at what she did—well, used to do, he amended with a moment of guilt at _that _thought. He supposed it was his fault that she didn't do it anymore, but she would very soon have a _much _bigger microphone at her disposal. And she would have it not for seven months, but four and a half years, at least if he had anything to say about it.

The press—and the sanctimonious old fool himself—would forever wonder whether it was an instance of forgiving and forgetting or a smugly "fuck you" bit of cheek. It was, of course, the latter, but no one but the pair of them need know _that _for certain. She could smile and talk to the press about "setting aside politics for one day" and that would definitely sell the story that it was a sincere gesture of forgiveness. After all, there were stories of Democrats and Republicans slapping each other's backs and going out for drinks after work. The rest was just their job. What happened on Capitol Hill stayed on Capitol Hill. It wasn't an impossible idea to swallow. Anyone who questioned Sydney's story would look like the bad guy of the piece, unduly cynical and grudge-holding.

That didn't exactly stop some of their enemies from being spiteful. Those who were part of a "moral majority" organization, for whom it was about a "cause" rather than a candidacy or party, could say things that the actual dealmakers usually could not (unless they were after votes from that set). The bitchy and baseless speculation from one trash-talking blonde hag named Ann Coulman about whether it amounted to a shotgun wedding was a perfect example.

There was no good option left to the old Senator regarding what to do about the invitation. Attend the wedding of the man he was trying to defeat and the woman he had smeared in the most vulgar terms, thereby conceding defeat on the topic—or stay away to please the base, who would decide his party's nomination, and risk looking petty to everyone else?

As they both knew perfectly well would happen, Rumson declined. So did his polls.

* * *

**Tick Tock**

Her fortieth birthday occurred in August. It was another campaign day, of course, this one spent in the sweltering humidity of St. Louis, but the campaign had still managed to recognize the day with a cake and a special dinner. Not that she told the staff this, but she had mixed feelings about the to-do and the day itself. The age felt right on the cusp of being old.

As the campaign staff piled into their hotel rooms for the night, she could not help but notice the way Andy was looking at her.

"What is it?" she asked him.

Silently he unlocked the door to the room. By himself. Agents and staff detail were lurking in the corridor, but it was a formality; the hotel was secure. He could have his own room key.

"Could we have a serious talk?" he asked as soon as they were locked in the room, and with that, she _knew._ She _knew._ All of a sudden, her legs turned to jelly, and she felt drenched in ice water. But she was a professional, highly experienced at keeping her cool and not showing fear, even when it was stark terror.

Still, she had a hard time getting to sleep later that night, once the lights were off and they were attempting to catch a few hours of sleep before the five o'clock flight to Seattle. The conversation was—not bothering her, exactly, but her thoughts had not solidified. A couple of years ago, she had assumed that this simply would not be a part of her life—that she was too old. Technically she wasn't, and she knew it, but it seemed so very unlikely. Any men in her age range would be more likely than usual to already have children and presumably wouldn't care for any more. She had accepted the perceived probability and gotten accustomed to the idea, so this was rather a shock for her mind to adjust to.

_He wants a son,_ she realized, lying on her side. He had not said so specifically, but she had not become a lobbyist by being a fool about what people were really thinking, whether they said it or not. And this was obvious.

She wondered about it. Was it that he had always wanted one—with his first wife—but that since that hadn't happened, she was now the only choice to make it possible and he wanted to try before it was too late? Or was it something a little more subtle, and a lot sweeter, than that? He had said he loved her as much as he had loved Mary and wanted to have the same types of happy experiences with her—but maybe he preferred this experience to be different in that one detail. But then suppose she had a daughter. Would he want to try again, even when she was in her forties? He _had _said that he was afraid they would really regret it in a few years, once he was out of office, if they didn't try... but that part might have been what he said it was, rather than specifically about wanting a boy. She hoped so; she didn't think she was up to more. Not with everything else she would be doing.

She scowled to herself in the dark. This really wasn't something she had anticipated. She had imagined that it would just be the three of them in their little family. She loved Lucy as a daughter, after all, and he knew it. She had expected that _that _would be their family and that _she _could pick up where she left off with her own work. First Ladies always had some kind of signature cause, after all, and she was just getting started on the Green Fuel for Blue Skies Initiative. _That _was to be her baby. _But when you're married to the most powerful man in the world, he's all but certain to retain that position for four more years, and he wants a kid with you, what can you do?_

* * *

Compliant thoughts might come in the soft warm darkness of night, but for many people, the emergence of the aggressive blazing sun would energize the fire within them. By daybreak, Sydney was ready to have the discussion that she hadn't wanted—or hadn't felt up to—at night, and she felt spirited about it. Sitting on a plane for several hours and brooding only solidified her conclusions. There was a _reason _she had been terrified and then ambivalent, she decided, and she thought she knew what it was.

She had been used for her professional expertise in her erstwhile job, but that was just part of the job. She was _not _going to let herself be used in a far more personal manner for anyone's wish fulfillment.

He had a romantic streak a mile and a half wide (something she had known very well, of course), and he had been deeply offended that she had characterized what _he _thought was a sweet wish in such an ugly way, especially after giving the appearance of liking the idea the night before. The inevitable fight had been blood-curdling. The entire campaign staff had cleared out once they got started, not wanting to be anywhere near the line of fire.

They weren't given to expressing anger through the destruction of objects. The new hotel room in Seattle was untouched—save the king bed where he had, at last, pushed her down and asserted that he realized she was again lying to herself about what they were to each other, but that he didn't think she would lie to herself about _this._

That finished the argument. All they had to do was _look _at each other in that intense way, and all thoughts of anger fled for the time being. Afterward, she was vaguely pissed that she could enjoy this when he was acting this way, but she _definitely _did.

She also realized that he was right about his assessment. She was still angry on some level about being sacked and irritated that her return to importance and power had come about from a personal relationship instead of career achievements. And as a former lobbyist, she saw this desire of his as a kind of quid pro quo on that cynical subconscious level. _That _was why she had fixed upon the idea of being used for what he wanted. It wasn't fear that he would use her _personally._ It was a fear-driven subconscious determination to see their give-and-take as _political_ still.

She felt terrible when she realized it. Obviously he didn't see it in any such cold-blooded way, and in truth, neither did she—not really. It was just a gnawing darkness that needed to be banished once and for all. _This marriage recovered my reputation and influence, but that is not why we formed it. He would have had me working for him as some kind of advisor if he only cared about my career. This is not a political relationship. It is a personal relationship that is just affected by politics to some degree because of what we do. _She realized that it was _better _that her rehabilitation had not come by playing the game of the untrustworthy people who had tried to destroy her, but instead had been the doing of one who loved her. What better way to send a "screw you" message to the people who had sacked her than to make them _utterly _irrelevant in her life? The best revenge was to live well.

* * *

**October Surprise**

"Matt Crudge said _what?"_

Lewis Rothschild backed off anxiously at his boss's outburst. "You can see for yourself, sir. I don't know exactly where the information came from—"

"From his ass," the President supplied angrily. "He _made it up, _Lewis. There is no 'information.' We've been riding high in the polls on all the happy personal news, and two weeks before the election, he comes up with a bullshit headline like _this."_ He averted his gaze from the offending computer screen and glanced at Sydney, who sat on a chair. Her face was set in rigid anger. She had known about this for an hour already. He had been at the rally.

Rothschild looked at them. "So, just between us, there is _no _basis in fact for this?"

"Absolutely none," the First Lady snapped. "It is a complete fabrication."

"The reporters are waiting outside the room," Rothschild explained. "Whenever you are prepared to talk about it—"

"I'm prepared right now," Sydney said. She stood up, icy with fury. "This type of personal crap has to be discredited _now,_ or twenty years from now, any partisan fool with a computer will be able to say anything and it will get a hearing in the media—or worse, partisan fools with computers will have their _own _media."

"I'm afraid that may happen anyway," Andy muttered darkly. "You know that speech?"

Of course she knew. She would always remember it. You don't forget the speech in which the leader of the free world proclaims on television that he loves you. The memory softened her anger a jot.

"Well, I've never been so close to backtracking on it. These Internet cowboys like Crudge don't even give lip service to journalistic ethics. He is a partisan activist masquerading as media. He's a political tabloid writer. He doesn't have to have sources, any more than the _National Enquirer _has to have sources. _Less, _probably. I worry about what the Internet may become with an ignorant, partisan populace. But the answer isn't to shut down ugly speech. It is _more _speech—speech to counter this." He smiled weakly. "So go get 'em."

She was on the verge of turning the doorknob when she felt familiar arms envelop her firmly and a kiss full of warmth, possession, pride, and encouragement press on her cheek. She gazed into her husband's face, and the angry shaking stopped.

_This is my fault,_ she thought, _and I've got to fix it. Word of the fight must have gotten out, I haven't looked happy enough about this, I am—after all—forty, and that damn partisan hack has leaped on it all. Smile, Syd. Smile._

The mob attacked her at once. Twenty microphones were shoved in her face as soon as the door opened.

"Mrs. Shepherd, can you comment on the allegation by the Crudge Report that you discussed abortion with your doctor?"

She sucked her breath between her teeth. "I can comment on it, all right. It is a _lie."_

Cameras flashed.

"There is not a grain of truth to it. If Crudge passed it along after hearing it from someone else, he should be ashamed of not checking his sources—and if he _is _the one who invented it, just to see what might stick, that is _beneath _contempt."

The reporters started to buzz with questions. It was not at all common for a political figure to use such harsh, unequivocal language in commenting. The flurry of questions became incomprehensible to her.

"We're a happily married couple, so of _course_ we've never thought about abortion," she said loudly over the buzz. "We're delighted that we're going to have a child in seven months."

"What about the rumors regarding a fight with the President about the subject?" one female reporter called out above the din.

"We did have an argument before I became pregnant. Katie, right?" she asked the blonde CNN reporter, who nodded. "We're not superhuman. There isn't a couple in the country that hasn't had an argument before. It is not news. Regarding us specifically, I was uneasy about how Lucy would take it and I was, I admit, not fully confident in my own abilities. I am sure _that's _something many women are also familiar with when they contemplate this decision," she said with a forced but convincing chuckle. "But we talked about these things and haven't had any doubts since. It is despicable of Crudge and his following to insinuate such negative things about our family or marriage. They ought to be ashamed, and that is all I have to say about this."

She was back in the sanctuary of the quiet room in a second, in the same warm embrace that she had reluctantly had to leave. Every doubt was indeed gone now, replaced by an aggressive protectiveness toward what was developing inside her and a set determination to not let any considerations of _that world_ affect her personal and family life if she could help it.

That evening, Rothschild got off the phone and turned to the President as the pair of them rested on the big sofa in the suite. "Sir," he said reluctantly, "that was a leading abortion rights advocacy group. They are unhappy with your wife's apparent denunciation of the choice for married women today—"

"Fuck them," he snapped. The staffer's eyes widened. "It's not our job to use our personal lives to promote every cause under the sun. The personal isn't political, Lewis. Tell them that."

"Yes, sir."

"Ugh," Sydney said. "If it isn't a right-wing muckraker on the Internet inventing crap, it's a left-wing group far too eager to feel outraged. We just can't win, can we?"

At that, Andy broke into a smirk. "Oh, we're going to win."

* * *

**Prefix**

Lucy knew that Ms. Sydney wasn't Mom. Mom was gone, and Lucy had accepted that. Ms. Sydney was her stepmother. She would never _replace _Mom, but increasingly, she was like a second mother. She had even considered calling her something different, something more motherly, but had not decided on what. "Mom" was taken. "Mama" and "Mommy" were for little kids. "Mother" was the really serious word, the original one from which the nicknames came. Lucy wished that Mom had been "Mother," because that would have freed up the name "Mom" for Ms. Sydney, but it was too late. "Stepmother" was disturbing; it reminded her of Cinderella. She was not "Miss Wade" now and "Mrs. Shepherd" was what Lucy might have called a teacher. She had wanted to find another name—until now. _Now, _she had no interest in calling her anything different.

This hurt. It might be some kind of grown-up thing that she knew she couldn't entirely understand yet, but it looked an awful lot like Dad and Ms. Sydney weren't satisfied with her. Like she wasn't enough—or _good _enough—for them, since she wasn't the child of both of them. She kind of understood it from Ms. Sydney's point of view. After all, she didn't have any kids of her own and she might want one. But _Dad—_

Dad did _not_ like it when she referred to the baby as her half-brother. "He's going to be your _brother,_ Lucy," he would say in a pained tone of voice whenever she uttered the prefix. For a moment she felt bad about hurting Dad's feelings, but that quickly passed, to be replaced by a vindictive pleasure. _I can hurt you too._ Besides, she knew that in strict accuracy, she was right and Dad was wrong. She pointed that out to him once. He had to leave the room.

Later that night, she was listening at the door. She did that whenever they talked, because it often meant that she would hear interesting things—or things about herself. She liked to know that they were still talking about her, that she still mattered to them.

"It'll pass," Dad was saying in a gruff voice. "A lot of kids get jealous about this. They'll even say that their siblings aren't really their siblings, or that one or the other was adopted. It's a common child fantasy when they're mad."

"This is somewhat different from that, and you know it," Ms. Sydney objected. "You should talk with her."

"She's a lot angrier with me than with you."

"I know. That's _why _you should talk with her."

There was a long pause. Then Dad said, "You're right. I'll do it tomorrow evening if nothing comes up."

"Not regretting how things turned out last month, are you?" Ms. Sydney's tone was rather wicked.

Another pause. "I regret it _and_ give thanks for it every day. It has made family life that much harder and it has given us an opportunity like no other."

"I know," she said softly.

* * *

**Unsolicited Advice**

When Sydney wanted to go to the Museum of American History before, she would have just gone. No one would have remarked on her presence. No one would have recognized her except for her own acquaintances.

Now, on the other hand, a visit to the museum would require a whole entourage—no, a security detail, she corrected herself in thought. It was irritating. She just wanted to look at the inaugural ballgowns and see if there had ever been one for—_this _situation. However, it was far too much of a hassle to clear the exhibit and protect her from throngs of visitors. Better to acquire a book on the subject from the Library of Congress.

This particular situation was a novelty in the modern era, and as a result, everyone, it seemed, had an opinion, most of them unsolicited. Feminist groups proclaimed that she should wear something in any style she wanted, because it would be "sexist" for anyone to say that a baby bump made a dress that wasn't cut for it look unflattering. The Family Council sanctimoniously and insultingly fretted about the wisdom of an "older woman" five months pregnant dancing the night away at all. That cocky fedora-topped prick Matt Crudge, undeterred by the campaign-season smackdown of his rumor-mongering, posted a headline on his stupid website one day to the effect that she was considering showing up for the ball in a pantsuit. Predictably, after being shown this headline, Andy had grinned, laughed, and remarked that as far as _he _was concerned, she could go in her lingerie—a remark that was certainly _flattering, _but not particularly helpful in practical terms.

In the end, of course, a fashion designer was invited to the White House to work her magic. The final result was pretty stunning—an emerald green thing with an Empire waist and a long, full skirt. Strict secrecy about it for now, of course. The whole world would get to see it in a few days, but there must not be a breach until then. The concept was too _interesting _to the media and the public.

_Wear a pantsuit to the ball, indeed,_ she thought indignantly as she tried the gown on. She was a modern woman, professional and self-assured, but that was _no _reason to dislike looking beautiful when she had the opportunity. Now, she thought after the fitting, in a few days _this _gown would enter the historical annals. Someday people would look at it in the museum too.

* * *

**Banshee**

"Open the damn door!" Andy roared as another round of pained shouts emanated from the room.

"Mr. President, sit down and have a drink," said A. J. "I assure you, she is just fine."

He glared at his old friend. "Mary didn't yell like this."

"Mary was rather younger." That sounded bad, the man realized. "And it's different for everyone."

A bellow of pain that sounded like the apocalypse was coming radiated through the door. He leaped up again and grabbed the doorknob, trying to break the lock. Failing to do anything but pull a blister on his hand, he proceeded to beat on the door.

The groans stopped for a moment. Then—

On the other side, the doctor stared in astonishment. "He's beating on the door. Why is he allowed to do that? Where are the staff?"

That did it for her patient. _"You!"_ Sydney roared at the door, making the doctor jump. "Get away from that door! How _dare_ you try to show your face in here! This is _your fault _and I am _never_ going to let you touch me again!" A groan of pain escaped her, and she turned to the doctor, who was wide-eyed and trying not to laugh. "I want an epidural."

"It might knock out your legs longer than you want. Also, you requested a natural birth, and I'm uneasy about backtracking on that wish because of something you said while in pain."

"Then do a C-section."

"No, Mrs. Shepherd. There is no reason for that. This won't last much longer."

The men had not heard the conversation between the doctor and her patient, but they had definitely heard the malediction that preceded it. Outside the room, A. J. was attempting not to crack up.

"She doesn't mean it, Andy," he said around smothered chuckles.

"I know she doesn't mean it. It just bothers me that she's in enough pain to even _say _it."

"You should have seen your face when she said it, though. It was priceless."

The—interaction—nonetheless seemed to have cleared the air a bit, though. A bottle of fine brandy was produced from somewhere, and they began to sip. The smooth fire of the alcohol comforted their throats and quickly soothed their nerves.

After a while, the yells subsided. The bottle of brandy was now three-quarters full. No staffer would have dared disturb either of them except for a security emergency, which fortunately did not happen. They sat on the plush furniture, waiting.

Lucy's escort showed up with her in tow. She was back from school, eager to find out if anything had happened. As she entered the corridor and approached her father, he quickly passed the bottle to A. J. to be hidden from the innocent uncorrupted child.

Lucy shook her head and pursed her lips in amusement. "I know what drink is, Dad."

He chuckled weakly. "Come here. You're almost too big for me to hold in my lap, and I want to while we still can."

A. J. smiled. "I'd stay here, but _someone_ should man the fort. Congrats and good luck."

The girl had just been comfortably nestled in her dad's arms when the door _finally _opened and the doctor emerged. "You can come in now, if you want, sir. You too," the woman said to Lucy.

Sydney lay on top of the covers wearing nothing but a hospital-style gown and her ring, drenched from head to toe in sweat—and what appeared to be tears, based on the streaks on her face. Her hair was wet and spiky, her eyes were red with tiredness, dark circles surrounded them, and every particle of makeup was gone.

He thought she had never looked more gorgeous.

"Here," she said in hoarse tones, handing out a surprisingly quiet bundle to him. "He's been fed. He's dozing now."

The chubby boy might have been dozing, but he quickly woke up once he was passed to a new person. A momentary cry escaped him, but he immediately quieted down once he was held against his father's chest.

"Oh, he knows his dad," the President of the United States cooed. The First Lady managed a smile. She was obviously exhausted and seemed on the verge of falling asleep.

Lucy was on her toes, trying to get a glimpse. "Let me see him, Dad," she kept saying. "Let me see my..." She hesitated a fraction of a second. "Brother."

He whipped his head around, a smile forming on his face.

* * *

**Echo Echo**

The press, fickle as they were, had turned on a dime, and the woman that they had been so determined to tear to shreds a year and a half ago was now designated the "First Mom" by the commentariat. The title was amusing to its recipient, who still found it hard to believe that she had _that _job, the one she had never expected. _Well, _she thought idly when she first heard of the appellation, _I suppose I gave them something very novel and different to talk about, which is what they like best of all._ The "story" of a woman who suddenly had not one, but _two _children to mother, in _that _fishbowl, trying to meet the expectations of being First Lady as well, was irresistible to them. She found that funny too; of course she was flexible; one _could not _normalize the idea of being married to the President without being adaptable.

In truth, the biggest "Mom" problem she had was just getting time with the kids. There were more than enough handlers to try to ease her life. She didn't want them taking the kids away as much as they did. Private family evenings were carved on the calendar as firmly as they could be, and it was common for her to secrete herself away in her office in the morning and nurse, just cherishing the time until she had to deal with her work. Her staff expected it now.

But today was different. Today she was glad of the assistance. As she passed through, staffers kept offering her coffee and tea. She declined them all. What she really needed was a stiff drink. What was _wrong _with people, anyway? Why did they have to be so _cruel _to each other? Unfortunately it wasn't a good time of day for a drink, and she was supposed to be nursing, or at least making bottles. No booze for now, however much she might want it.

She made a beeline to the executive side of the building, straight to the Oval Office, and shut the door behind her. The President looked up from his work.

"What in the world is the matter?" he exclaimed.

She sat down. "I need a hundred thousand more a year for the Blue Skies Initiative," she said.

He gazed at her in confusion. "Okay... but how come? What's wrong?"

She took a deep breath. "Better start from the top."

"Generally a good idea in _all _matters," he said pointedly, eyes scanning her and a very familiar smirk on his face.

She blushed faintly but was not to be distracted by this kind of talk. She knew he wanted to "christen" the Oval Office, but he had not managed to talk her into it—yet—and this was not going to be the time that he did. "You remember Dr. Frazier, the chemist?"

Andy raised an eyebrow. "At the EPA? The one who cussed you about the Initiative's position on transportation?"

She grinned wryly and nodded. "That's the one. That argument we had about high-speed rail was intense."

"I _told _you it couldn't replace everything we have. There are a lot of places people want to visit and we just cannot build it everywhere they travel." He sounded amused.

"I know. I realize that now." She took a deep breath. "I talked with her once during the environment bill, and she was—blunt—even in agreement. But she was fired this morning, and I want you to—"

He gaped. "For what? Getting in an argument with the First Lady isn't cause for being fired. She's a federal employee, right? There is a procedure that must be followed. They can't do that." He picked up his phone. "Who's her boss?"

"Don't bother," Sydney said. "I've already looked it all up. It's an appointed position not subject to those protections—and the actual cause was something else."

He looked deflated. "What?"

"You're going to _love_ this."

He sat back and waited.

"It turns out that she's been privately engaged to a lobbyist for the aviation industry."

He started to laugh, a dark, humorless laugh. "What is this, the scarlet letter in this town? 'L' rather than 'A'?" He thought for a moment. "Or maybe it's 'K.'"

"Whichever it is, apparently that is the case," she said sourly. "They consider it an unacceptable conflict of interest—though she suspects, and I'm inclined to agree, that it's just an excuse to get rid of her. So I want her for the Initiative. She was being paid a hundred and twenty thousand and is willing to take a cut. She just doesn't want to lose her career."

He thought about it. "Engaged to an aviation industry guy, you say. The eco people won't like that a bit, you know. They'll say that's the reason for her views."

"Well, maybe it is," she said, "but it could just be because she talked with him about it and heard his perspective. In any case, the Initiative doesn't belong to one set of opinions. They can say what they want in their own firms, but this is _mine,_ and for once in my life, I don't have to give a _damn _what special interests say I should do with it. _We _can set the direction of policy, Mr. President," she said with a grin. "You won with fifty-three percent and it's holding steady."

He grinned.

"There is no reason to silence these other voices before they have a chance to speak. Let the ideas sink or float on their own merits. Maybe she's right. Maybe the answer _is _a multitude of new technologies. The Initiative doesn't need to be filled with yes-men, anyway. I want to hire her. She had the nerve to berate the First Lady about something she felt strongly that I was wrong about. I'm sure _you _understand," she said pointedly, alluding to their first meeting.

He grinned again, but it didn't last. "Still," he said. "Aviation industry. Airplane fuel. That's even worse than gasoline."

"There is no reason why they couldn't be engineered to be more efficient or to use something else," she said primly. "I think it's important to include all interested parties in the discussion instead of designating them 'bad guys' and shutting them out."

He had a gleam in his eye. "What has happened to you?"

Suddenly she realized what he meant. She smiled sheepishly. "It looks a lot different from this side of the table."

* * *

**Interrupted**

Maybe it was a bad idea, all things considered, but Sydney typically slept in the nude now. There were several reasons for it. They had gone at it like a pair of honeymooners for over a year and a half, even during the month or so after Nate's birth (just using a more precise and deliberate method), so even if she decided to slip back into her nightclothes _afterward, _they would often come off again anyway before she finally went to sleep. And she would be too tired after round two to bother putting them on again. She had to admit, it also drastically increased the likelihood that there would _be_ a "round two" for him to know that she was inches away with absolutely nothing on. It made her feel, paradoxically, vulnerable and extremely powerful at the same time. Besides, she liked the familiar intimacy of sleeping like this for tamer reasons too. It was one way to keep her husband humanized.

The problematic part of it was first shown in stark relief when a buzz sounded on their door at three-thirty in the morning. It had been a night well spent as of two hours ago. He had really needed it, he had gasped once they were finished—and so had she. Sleep had found them within minutes.

And now, she was paying the price. The staffer gazed into the darkened room as Andy scrambled to tie his robe around his waist and she attempted to stay hidden under the covers. She was afraid that the staffer had already seen quite a bit when he got out of bed. _Normal _people could sleep in the nude without the expectation of being interrupted by anyone except their children, and then only at a certain age. Lucy was too old and Nate was far too young to pull _that _on them. If they had been anyone else, they wouldn't have had to deal with this...

Her husband noticed her discomfort. "Stop looking at her," he snapped in a very threatening, possessive tone of voice.

The man drew back, deeply shamed. "I apologize, sir. I didn't mean any disrespect, Mrs. Shepherd," he added.

_Like hell you didn't,_ she thought to herself.

He leaned over and pecked her on the forehead. "I'll be back as soon as possible. Go back to sleep if you can, darling."

Of course she couldn't. She didn't like it when he was called away in the middle of the night. It never meant anything good when that was necessary, and it made her nervous.

"What was that?" she asked when he finally returned.

He sighed. "Princess Diana was killed in a car crash a few hours ago."

_No one else in the country would be awakened at unholy o'clock to be told that._ She felt guilty as soon as she had the thought cross her mind. In a few hours, she would be expected to offer condolences to people she had met once over the death of a person she had never met at all. _Well, I guess that isn't so uncommon,_ she thought wryly as she tried to get back to sleep.

* * *

**The People's Office**

Other than the meeting a couple of months ago to plead the case of the fired EPA chemist, Sydney had been avoiding the Oval Office as well as she could. She knew perfectly well what Andy intended to do if he had the chance and thought it asking for trouble—no, courting trouble with fluttering eyelashes and cooing words. She had cottoned on to his plans many months ago when he had managed to get her in there and insisted that she "sit down" when he had made certain there was nowhere to sit except on top of the desk. _The _desk. The priceless executive desk. And as luck would have it, a staffer had walked in while she was perched there. Fortunately, she was just scanning a bill that he had wanted her opinion on. That was the pretext of getting her in there, at least, and it was legitimate. But she was sure that more would have happened if they hadn't been interrupted.

And now, after she had done her best to give the place a wide berth, Andy had managed to corner her in there late Labor Day evening after—they hoped—most of the work was done. She realized it as soon as he started giving her that look with which she was now intimately familiar. She also realized that, unless something bad happened, she couldn't count on anyone to knock at the door at this hour of this day. He had planned this one well, she had to acknowledge.

"Where are the kids?" he asked pointedly as she looked around the room and the situation sank in for her.

She shifted her stance as she gazed upon the desk. He had it mostly cleared off, she couldn't help but notice. "I hope to God that Nate's still asleep. He should be, at least. And Lucy's with Stephanie and Brooke. Tonight is their sleepover, remember?"

"Oh, right." He felt bad for a moment. He should have remembered that. It had been the _devil _to arrange, but they had been trying to give her a semi-normal life, and once it was set up, he hadn't thought about it. There were too many other things on his mind. "Well," he said, "I assume she wants to be left alone with her friends and won't go looking for us."

"She's already informed me that we are to stay out of the rooms we fixed up for them unless it's an emergency," Sydney said with a smirk.

"_Good."_ His gaze traveled over her figure. "I like that dress," he remarked suddenly, scanning the fitted blue dress that came up just above her knees. "Where did it come from?"

"Versace."

"Well, it suits you. Come here. I want a closer look."

"That is the most transparent line I've ever heard from you," she muttered. However, she moved closer to the desk anyway.

As soon as she was within reach, he pulled her into his lap. She immediately leaped up, to his consternation. "This is _begging _for somebody to see," she protested.

"So somebody sees," he exclaimed in mild exasperation. "What can they say? The President and his wife got frisky in the Oval Office. So what?"

"What you have in mind is a _little_ more than 'getting frisky.'"

"So much the better."

"You wouldn't be so cocky if the press were waiting outside like they were that one morning—" she began to say before breaking off, realizing that yes, he _would _be that cocky, because he _had _been.

"There is nothing they can say—nothing. If they want sex scandals, they should scoot down the street and peep in some Congressional offices."

"I know, but—"

He was already in history mode, and there was no stopping him once he got there. It had to run its course. "Several presidents were adulterers, you know. It could be worse. This office could be occupied by one who did _that _in it. Can you imagine what the media would do with _that?"_ He didn't wait for an answer. "And if it was one of _ours,_ that could be cataclysmic. Imagine. The crazy side of the opposition would sweep to power, and who knows what they might do? Unnecessary wars, unnecessary deaths, neglect of important matters in favor of ideological crap, loss of the nation's standing in the world, maybe even another recession... the nation might be fucked for a generation."

For a second, the oddest feeling passed through Sydney's mind, almost like déjà vu, but the reverse. Weird—and a little disturbing. She shook her head slightly to clear the thought.

He had the same kind of odd look on his face. "I'm sorry," he said in normal tones. "I don't know what came over me for a moment..."

"We work in politics," she said in as light a tone as she could manage. The picture of America that he had put into her imagination was awfully clear, far _too_ clear—but it _wasn't_ real, she reminded herself. It wasn't their world. "We think of all possible outcomes. And since the outcome might be pretty bad if this office were used improperly, it's good that the president is not that type of person," she purred.

"He certainly isn't." He smiled and gently pulled her back into his lap.

This time she didn't object or try to draw away. Something in her seemed to have accepted that this was going to happen eventually, so why not now? And it wasn't as if they would have the opportunity forever. The realization hit her like a bolt of lightning that she wanted to do this too.

She threw her arms around his neck, straddled his waist, and gazed at him with a smirk. "You wanted me closer. Is this close enough for you?"

"Actually, no."

She gave an involuntary smothered gasp when she felt his hands run up her thighs and push the dress up toward her waist. He scooted the executive chair closer to the desk, so that she felt the edge of the desktop against her back and realized that she was pinned.

"I wondered if I'd have to issue an executive order to get you in here," he growled against the side of her neck in between kisses.

"Ex_cuse_ me?"

"You heard what I said." More kisses.

"That would be a massive abuse of presidential power." Her fingers threaded through his hair, and she said it so affectionately that it lost all bite. That was all right, though.

His hands left her thighs and found the zipper on the back of the dress. "No it wouldn't. I just said 'get you in here.' Whatever happened afterward would be... negotiated." The zipper was undone; the dress was suddenly looser on her.

"Is that what you call this now?"

He grinned. "No, I have other words for _this."_ His hands trailed over her shoulder blades and rested on her shoulders. Sure he was about to lean her back on the executive desk, she breathed deeply, trying not to let him see just _how..._ excited... that idea made her.

Instead, he lifted her off the chair and pushed her down, toward the floor, hands staying firmly on her shoulders. "What—?" she started to ask, but she halted her question mid-sentence as she realized exactly what he wanted.

"Do you have any idea how long I've had this fantasy?" he asked in a low murmur.

"What fantasy?" she replied. She knew. She just wanted to hear him say it.

He understood. "The one where you pleasure me like that while I sit at the presidential desk." He rubbed his thumbs in circular motions over her shoulders.

Sydney was fully in character now. "That is quite a bold request, Mr. President. What do _I _get out of this?"

"Always the lobbyist. But I think the proper term is 'equal treatment.'"

"Do I have your word on this deal, then?"

"You _know_ I'm a man of my word, my dear."

"I do know," she said softly. They exchanged wicked smirks as she reached for his belt. He was definitely ready, she noticed.

She'd had a lot of practice at this a number of months ago while she was waiting to heal. They still had needs, so this was how they took care of it then. But there was something _rather _different about doing this _here..._

"That is so good," he moaned as she drew back with a smirk and delicately traced a vein with her fingers. The pressure on her shoulders increased for half a second, and then he lifted his right hand and slid his fingers behind her head, into her hair. She took that—correctly—as a signal to return to her prior oral ministrations.

There was something very arousing about observing him coming undone like this, letting out those pleased yet desperate gasps, and feeling the pressure of his hands on her with each gasp. She was getting ready for him to do as he had promised he would... but maybe he wanted her to finish him first—

Suddenly he pushed her back and gasped a huge breath. She gazed up at him, surprised. "Don't you want me to—"

He slipped his hands under her arms and heaved her to her feet. "Not this way." He scooted the executive chair left and to the side of the desk, then lifted her over the edge and onto the desktop.

Papers scattered, a few ornaments tipped over, and the stylish blue dress was again shoved up to her hips. "Be careful," she said hurriedly as he reached to take off her panties.

They sailed to the floor on the other side of the office. "You were saying?"

"Great, if someone knocks, we won't have time to hide those—_oh!"_ Instantly, all worries fled her mind as he descended.

She closed her eyes and breathed heavily, her only reality quickly becoming the hard desktop and his fingers and tongue in her center and the fact that this was actually happening _in the Oval Office._ She was already turned on from attending to him, but this felt like he was purposely tormenting her, bringing her close but then slowing down just enough to keep it going.

After what felt like an hour of this—though she knew it could not be but a few minutes—he abruptly drew back.

"Oh," she groaned, "that's not nice. You _said _you would—"

"And I will. I would never _withdraw_ something I'd promised _you."_ He leaned over the desk, reached behind her, and gently lifted her head. She leaned into him and smiled as they shared a deep kiss. Then he set her back down. She reached for him, pulling his necktie out from the buttoned suit jacket.

"I think I prefer doing _this_ at the executive desk," he murmured against her ear.

"The people wouldn't like to hear that you'd rather do _this_ in here than your job."

"Too bad. What matters is what _you_ would prefer I did."

"For _shame,_ Mr. President. Caring more about pleasing a _lobbyist_ than the _people."_

"Just this particular one." With a smirk, he moved forward, leaning over her, filling her. They began to move. That was it for banter. They were too close to completion already, and it did not take much longer for them to reach it.

Once the waves of pleasure had peaked and they were feeling deliciously spent, for a moment she lay sprawled on her back on the executive desk, with him propped on his elbows and leaning over her. Then he gathered her in his arms and gently lowered her to the floor. She leaned back against the side of the desk. He nestled himself into her, resting his head in the crook of her neck.

"Was that what you hoped it would be?" she asked as soon as she was able to talk.

His mouth curled into a smile that she felt. "It was perfect."

She wrapped her arms around him and nuzzled the top of his head.

"That doesn't mean I'd never want to do it again, of course."

"We'll see," she said.

He raised his head and stood up, pulling her to her feet with one arm and fastening his pants with the other hand. She pulled down her dress bottom and observed how wrinkled it was. Well, that was to be expected.

"We certainly will."


End file.
